The Case of the Breathtaking Bandit
by ChibiJaime
Summary: Basil has never experienced a case quite like the one involving the painter Dorien Garrot... nor is he likely to again. Sometimes, even science cannot explain such tales as this... UNFINISHED


_-/And you all thought I was dead! Figured I'd best post this eventually... as unusual and wacky as it may seem. With this up, I can finally finish the second chapter in good conscience!  
  
The character of Dorien Garrot is VERY loosely based on Dorian Gray... he remains true to the aging portrait, but the most part of him is based more on the LoEG version (speaking of, the graphic novel was better). I liked the basic concept of what they did with Gray more than how they portrayed him, so I sat and played with it for a while. Therefore, I apologize ahead of time. This came out better than I expected it to, in the long run... so I'll keep my Dorien the way he is and apologize to the very late Oscar Wilde in advance. ;.  
  
While the original Dorian Gray belongs to Oscar Wilde, Dorien Garrot and his mousily-sexy-self belongs to yours truly. Many thanks to Diane N. Tran (Mlle. Irene Relda) for allowing me the use of the name "Sherringford" for Basil. Basil and Ratigan belong to Eve Titus and Disney.  
  
This is a REALLY weird story. So weird, in fact, that even I don't know where it's going. The difficulties with Garrot will mostly arrive in the true fashion... there is no room for the paranormal in the world of Sherlock Holmes. Occasionally, however, something inexplicable happens. Occasionally, in our world as well as theirs, there are things beyond our imagination... things even Basil can't explain.  
  
I'll note here that while I love the story of Dorian Gray, this hardly resembles how he was, and I apologize for that. I hope to do a story eventually that is just him, where we can see a bit more of his inner workings.  
  
Next up, the use of Jamison as Ratigan's first name is a bit of creative license of my own... I didn't feel right calling him James (Moriarty's first name), so I used a variation. Hope this doesn't confuse anyone too much.  
  
Anyway, on we go!/-_  
  
**The Case of the Breathtaking Bandit  
Part One Seeing is Believing**  
  
Never had Dr. Dawson seen a case shake Basil so badly as the one involving a bank robber... one still on the loose, and one the detective was at a loss for how to deal with. The two sat in silence by the fire late one chilly October night in 1899, and as the pattern had been for weeks, the oft-illtempered Basil of Baker Street did not speak. He simply stared into the fire, his mind on many things.  
  
It had all begun just two months prior to that point, when a plague of rather mysterious bank robberies began cropping up around London. Mouseland Yard was baffled, but what puzzled them intrigued Basil, and he quickly set to work on attempting to discover the perpetrator of these crimes.  
  
The puzzle was intriguing to him. Who could have done this, while seeming to leave no traces of himself...?  
  
At that moment, barely a week before their fireside vigil, Basil and Dawson were seated across from one another at Jerome's, a restaurant Basil was most fond of. It had at first seemed that Basil was more interested in his food than listening to conversation, but suddenly, one of his ears cocked to the side, twitching to the sound of laughter in a light tenor across the dining room from them.  
  
He lifted his head and looked over, curious to see the cause, to find a young mouse sitting alone but quite enjoying himself, flirting shamelessly with a pair of young ladies that had entered to lunch. The girls giggled, and he laughed, tossing back a thick head of black hair that matched the coal black eyes in an obvious contrast to his white fur.  
  
After a few more moments of this, the ladies moved on, and the smartly dressed young mouse sipped lightly at a glass of wine with a smug expression. Basil frowned at his casserole, his appetite quelled simply by the sight of someone acting so unruly in a restaurant. He himself had no interest in making light with women... too many distractions. However, from the way the young gentlemouse was dressed - a loose-collared poet shirt with no tie, an open vest, pale lavender jacket hanging loosely off slim shoulders, pale grey slacks, and black boots? There was no mistaking that he held no regard for the rules of common British society.  
  
Dawson raised a brow at Basil's sudden frustrated expression, and almost ventured to question him on it, when a hearty laugh came from across the room. The gentlemouse had stood, and he was walking towards them.  
  
"What a glorious privilege it is, to be dining within no more than an arm's reach of the Great Detective himself!" came his languid voice. "Basil of Baker Street... an honor it is to meet you in person, my good sir."  
  
With a bit of a hidden sigh, Basil put on the most amiable smile he could muster, glancing up at the stranger, his words waxing almost too friendly. "Ah, yes... that would be me. I am afraid, however, that I do not know you."  
  
The white mouse grinned, holding out a graceful paw to Basil. "Dorien Garrot, at your most humble service, Detective." He glanced towards Dawson then, after lightly shaking Basil's paw. "And Dr. David Dawson, I presume? I have read your work. You are most masterful at capturing life, for the mouse before us both is a true image of heroism and gentlemanly refinement... do you not agree?"  
  
Basil almost sunk into his chair at the flowered praise, but then, his ears perked foreward. "Wait... Dorien Garrot?" He looked back towards the youth. "I've heard of you. A painter, correct? Quite prominent, I've heard your portraits sell for hundreds of pounds."  
  
"A painter held in the highest regard. I have done portraits for members of the royal court, and for many ranking officials." With that, he gave a winning smile. "I would be delighted to do a portrait of either of you sometime if you wish, good sirs."  
  
"That will be most unnecessary, Mr. Garrot, but thank you for the offer."  
  
Garrot grinned and gave a slight bow, never once taking his eyes off Basil for more than a second or so. It was almost as if he was evaluating the other mouse. "Of course. In any case, I must be back to my lunch. Please enjoy yours. I do hope to be seeing you both again."  
  
He nodded his head slightly, then spun on his heel and returned to his table. Dawson opened his mouth, then closed it again, and after a moment of thought, he finally began to speak. "What a strange fellow... what did you make of him, Basil?"  
  
"A very obnoxious painter. I know of a few people who would enjoy his company, but not myself by any means. I've gotten enough of mice like him to fill a lifetime." He spoke softly, so that the one who had left did not hear. Then, his voice lightened again. "In any case, old friend, let us eat. I am quite famished. Besides, I've a few details of this most recent case to discuss..."  
  
Their dapper guest did not stay for his own lunch. He paid for the wine and bread he had ordered prior, gave a hearty tip, and slipped out unnoticed. A smile rested on his finely-featured face. What an interesting challenge this would be!

* * *

"I do not appreciate unnotified visits, Garrot. You do understand that, I hope." An hour after his encounter with Basil, Dorien Garrot found himself standing facing his employer, the smile he had worn before gone from his elegant features. "I hope you will not make this a habit."  
  
Garrot bowed slightly at the waist, his hair shielding his eyes. "Of course not, Professor. My apologies, it will not happen again."  
  
He stood straight once more as the hulking form of Professor Jamison Ratigan turned to face him, eyeing the painter with some amount of annoyance. "You're being smug, Garrot. I do not appreciate it. What did you discover?"  
  
"Aside from simply observing the bank... I had a bit of a run-in with your old acquaintance, Basil of Baker Street." He grinned as Ratigan stiffened, a snarl passing over his face. "I thought that may get your attention." The young artist chuckled, folding his arms as he watched the expression on his employer's face carefully, testing just how far he could go. "He seems quite an adversary. It doesn't surprise me that you're having so much trouble killing him."  
  
Ratigan growled lowly, leveling a steady and angry gaze at the intrepid young thief. "If I wanted to hear about Basil, I would read of his so-called exploits in those published pieces of filth written by that fat doctor companion of his. What of the bank?"  
  
"Tight security, but I can manage. I have lived to see most of their 'security' become old... this is child's play for me, Professor. Don't worry. The heist will be carried off tonight without fail."  
  
The rat nodded, leaning heavily on his cane as he walked foreward slightly. "Good. Don't disappoint me, Garrot. No.mistakes."  
  
Finally, Garrot flashed a grin, cocking his head to one side. "Professor... when have I ever done otherwise?"

* * *

Basil crept along the dark street in silence as he approached the bank that night, close to midnight. Dawson was not far behind, both of them dressed in black to make passing easier in an attempt to stalk out their thief.  
  
"You've brought a sword, Basil," whispered Dawson lightly. "Whatever do you expect to do with that?"  
  
Basil smirked, an almost smug expression. "Though our thief left no clues, I noticed that he did not use a lockpick to gain entry to the actual bank. It had to be something else, and from the way the metal was scraped about the keyhole, I assumed a rapier, used with the greatest care. Our thief must be quite confident, I think, but I am not unpracticed in the art of swordplay myself. We shall find out when we meet him who is the master and who is the mastered."  
  
They continued on slowly, stopping only at the sight of someone else approaching the entrance to the bank. The figure was cloaked in black as well, but Dawson thought he could just make out the tips of white ears. Basil was perfectly unmoving, standing in a crouch, his tail rigid. True to Basil's observation, the figure drew a rapier and very carefully picked the lock on the door.  
  
When the mysterious stranger disappeared through the bank entrance, Basil finally relaxed, motioning to his companion. "Come along, Dawson! Our quarry is at hand!"  
  
Inside the bank, the cloaked figure had pulled back his hood, revealing none other than Dorien Garrot. He smiled slightly, glancing over his shoulder as he approached the vaults. "Come on, detective... I'm waiting."  
  
The doors creaked open slowly and Garrot turned to face them, smiling broadly as Basil and Dawson entered. The detective started, surprised to see their adversary facing them fully, and even more surprised to see who it was. "Dorien Garrot...?!"  
  
A short bow from the white mouse. "With pride!" He drew his sword. "And I see you have brought the good doctor along. Constant companions till the end."  
  
"How did you know we would be here?" Basil questioned warily.  
  
With a thoughtful 'hm', Garrot juggled the sword between his black-gloved paws, glancing towards the ceiling. "Let us put it this way, detective... you were born and aged before I had but waxed twenty."  
  
Basil's brow went up, but Garrot would have no more talk. He rushed foreward, blade up and prepared for a duel. The sleuth wasted no time, drawing his own sword in preparation. "Dawson, stay out of the way!" cried he.  
  
Dawson did not have to be asked twice, and quickly, he hurried out of the way of the sudden duel. He watched with suspended breath as the rapiers clashed again and again, and despite Basil's obvious skill, Garrot seemed to have the upper-hand, and he was thoroughly enjoying himself. "What skill!" he admonished. "What grace! Truly and surely, your friend makes no mistakes in his writings of you! You are a worthy adversary, far more than those fools at Mouseland Yard!"  
  
"I'm glad to make it interesting," returned Basil, blocking a slash meant for his chest. "You're not doing this for yourself, Garrot, you're rich from your painting. Who is your employer?!"  
  
The artist grinned, twisting his body to avoid a jab from Basil. "If you should best me, detective, I shall tell you! If I am the victor, I freely escape!"  
  
Basil just grinned, pushing the white mouse back with his sword. The upper-hand seeming now to belong to him, he lunged foreward, only to find his blade struck cleanly from his paw, flying to one side to lodge itself in a wall. Basil hissed out a curse, but Garrot just grinned. There was a sharp sound of a whistle blowing and the would-be thief drew his hood up. "I am afraid we must continue our lark some other time, detective. Adieu!"  
  
Shoving his adversary out of the way, Garrot quickly made tracks for the door, hiding his face as he shoved past the deputy that rushed in. He smoothly evaded the paws that tried to grab him, jumping the steps to land in a crouch before running off down the street as fast as his legs would carry him. Taking in a startled breath, the deputy turned to Basil, who was dislodging his own rapier from the wall. "Detective Basil, sir...? What in the world are you doing here?"  
  
"Dawson and I were trying to catch that thief, my good man. Take a message and send a wire to Mouseland Yard post-haste. Inform Inspector Le Feuvre that his thief is the painter Dorien Garrot. He may not believe it, but tell him if he trusts me at all, he will listen."  
  
As the young deputy nodded and left, Basil and Dawson made their way towards the doors. "Were you injured at all?" questioned the old doctor. "He was a good hand with a sword."  
  
"His style was very old," was Basil's reply, "and no, I am not injured. If anything took a blow, it was my pride. He cannot be much older than me, and I was schooled in fencing since I was a boy... it baffles me how he could be so skilled."  
  
Dawson didn't bother mentioning the old axiom that there was always someone better, for Basil's mood was proving already to be a sour one. So the two returned to their flat in silence, and while Dawson retired to his bedchamber, Basil stayed up long into the night, turning the facts over in his head again and again, trying to make sense of why a prominent painter would turn to a life of crime.  
  
As his lids grew heavy and the dawn threatened, he decided he would make some inquiries into the life of Dorien Garrot tomorrow. He did not bother standing from his chair and retiring; instead, he drew his Persian smoking jacket tighter about himself, burrowing his nose against the soft ebony collar, before falling asleep curled up in his chair.

* * *

Ratigan was not at all pleased with the news that Garrot had failed, and idly debated some sort of horrible torture for a moment, until he noticed that despite his five minutes of yelling at him for his foolishness, the painter still wore a smug grin. The rat frowned, staring at the artist incredulously. "What are you being so smug for, Garrot? You failed. I should have you drawn and quartered for that."  
  
"I want to face him again, Professor. He fascinates me." Garrot crossed his arms, gazing off to one side as his grin faded to a distant smile. "No man has ever dared to stand against me with such fierce tenacity. I wish to find out more about him, discover what makes him tick, find the key to his undoing... and personally break him."  
  
Almost seeming surprised by the interest Garrot was showing in his old archnemesis, Ratigan carefully arched a brow, leaning on his cane as he cocked his head to one side. "He... fascinates you. You are a strange one, Garrot."  
  
To this, Garrot gave a flourished bow. "Your praise humbles me, Professor."  
  
Now totally uncertain of how to deal with the strange young man, Ratigan flicked his hand in a waving motion towards him. "Go, then. Do what you like. I don't care how you do it, so long as Basil of Baker Street is dead in the end of it."  
  
Garrot bowed again, then spun on his heel and stepped out, heading back to his own comfortable flat. He'd things to do.

* * *

"Ah, Mina... if you had but seen the things I have seen today." Dorien Garrot spoke to no one as he entered his chambers, drawing off his heavy overcoat as his white ears flicked. His eyes turned to a painting hanging low to the floor across the room, of a beautiful silver-furred lady mouse with russet hair and intelligent green eyes. "I wonder of the talks you would have with someone like him. His intelligence would positively enthrall you, and his tenacity would amuse you to no ends."  
  
Smiling slightly, the painter walked over to the portrait, kneeling in front of it as he let his hand drift lightly over the face. "I oft find myself wishing it had been you whose painting allowed you to live, and I who had died in the jaws of that wretched cat. But you gave me my wish... didn't you, Mina? The portrait at Ratigan's lair. It ages, while I remain young. It shows all of the faults and injuries I take, while I heal. You loved me so much, Mina, that you gave your life so that mine may be forever."  
  
He kissed the forehead of the portrait, then gave a wicked grin, spinning on his heel to approach a writing table. "But now, my dear Mina, I must pen a letter. We shall be having company for tea in a fortnight... Basil of Baker Street himself!"

* * *

"Basil, you really should eat something," Dawson urged the next morning, glancing towards where his companion sat gloomily in his chair. He had not slept much, that was obvious enough, dulled green eyes focused lifelessly on the chair the doctor normally occupied. "Basil?"

Basil blinked in response, bringing up a paw to rub at his eyes wearily. "Hm? Oh... frightfully sorry, old boy. I was hardly able to sleep at all last night. It puzzles me, why Garrot would turn to a life of crime, which is why I fully intend to look into his past."  
  
Dawson raised a brow just slightly. "That will be difficult, Basil. Men like him hide their pasts well. Painters make certain only their name is known, not their history."  
  
There was a mumbling noise as Basil made a futile attempt to stifle a coming yawn, glancing at his friend. "I'll find out what I can," said he, stretching his long arms over his head. "Would you like to accompany me to the library?"  
  
Quickly, Dawson finished his tea as he gave a slight nod. "Someone should anyway." He smiled lightly. "Should you pass out on your way from exhaustion, who else would carry you back?"  
  
Basil rolled his eyes, but smiled, getting to his feet as he shrugged out of his smoking jacket. "Give me a few moments to clean up. Then, we make haste to the library to see if we can find any newspaper articles on our Dorien Garrot."

* * *

It took hours of searching through musty old papers before Basil found one that sparked his interest. "Ah, here we are... nearly thirty years ago? It can't be..." The detective narrowed his eyes, reading the headline aloud quietly. "Wife of Prominent Painter Devoured by Housecat."  
  
"What importance is that to us, Basil?" Dawson questioned lightly.  
  
"I was not finished reading, my friend." Basil's voice was dark and grim. "Listen to this. "At approximately 3:42 PM, Mina Sutton-Garrot was devoured by a housecat in the human home above the flat she shared with artist husband Dorien Garrot"!"  
  
Dawson stared at him incredulously, jaw agape. "Impossible. Dorien Garrot is no older than you, and the date on this is nearly 30 years ago."  
  
Even Basil seemed dumbfounded, staring at the print on the newspaper page as if it would magically change itself, letting him see through to the truth. But they did not change. Basil's skin paled beneath his fur to an unhealthy shade. illogical. Mice may live that long, Dawson, but they do not remain as young in appearance as Garrot. It has to be a clever ruse."  
  
Frowning, Dawson laid a paw on Basil's shoulder, seeing the mixture of confusion, distress, and exhaustion on his face. "You should rest, Basil."  
  
Basil nodded dumbly, standing up. "We should likely stop and collect our post on the way home..."  
  
He didn't speak any more as he put away the newspapers, heading out of the library in silence. They stopped to pick up their post, remaining in that same silence, when Basil blinked, suddenly seeming to regain his energy. "A letter from Dorien Garrot?" A new enthusiasm appeared on his young face, and he opened the letter, his eyes skimming it rapidly. "Garrot wants me to come to his estate... alone."  
  
"It's a trap, Basil," Dawson frowned. "It must be."  
  
"Whether it is a trap or not, Dawson, is not the point. I've many questions to ask Garrot, and this is a perfect opportunity to do just that." He yawned into his paw. "But for now, I must rest. In three days, I go to the estate of Dorien Garrot."

* * *

And in three days time, he did just that, arriving just before six on a rainy evening. Garrot himself answered the door, dressed in what he had worn the day Basil had first met him. He gave a passing grin, coal black eyes drifting over the detective in an obvious perusal. "Deerstalker, ash grey slacks, plain black shoes, white spats, and an Inverness cape. Your wardrobe could really do for a refashioning... I could assist, you know."  
  
Basil smiled without humor. "I think I'll keep my wardrobe the way it is, Garrot."  
  
"Ah, as you wish. Please, detective, I pray you, come in from the rain. It is dreadfully chilly outside. Wouldn't want you to catch ill."  
  
The two mice stepped back into the flat calmly, with Garrot pulling the door closed behind his guest. Removing his deerstalker and workman's coat, Basil glanced around nonchalantly. "I admire your taste in decor, Garrot... gothic. I hear death is good this season."  
  
Garrot chuckled, holding out his hands to take Basil's soaked coat and hat. "Oh? And how am I, then, detective?"  
  
"A bit on the wicked side," replied the sleuth, giving his deerstalker, Inverness, and workman's overcoat to Garrot carefully. "I asked before who hired you, and you declined an answer. We are in private here, and speaking to one another like proper gentlemice. Who has hired you? Will you tell me?"  
  
A smile crossed Garrot's young face. "Oh, come now, detective, you of all people know that there's no fun in merely TELLING you."  
  
Basil smiled back, rather amiably, steepling his fingers with a quiet chuckle. "Indeed. I must agree with you there. However, with a bloodhound such as myself on your scent, how long do you expect to continue your reign of crime before I uncover you to Mouseland Yard? Whoever you are working for cannot hide you forever."  
  
"The answer to that, and the answer to all else, is plainly before you, detective! I'm sure it will all come to you in a terrible flash of obviousness. And in the meanwhile, I expect to continue to suffer the fate that was given to me." He eyed Basil carefully. "As must we all... detective."  
  
At this, Basil raised a brow. "Mice make their own fate, Garrot." He glanced to the side then, his eyes falling on the portrait of Mina. "That portrait is quite striking... the one of the woman, in the ornate frame. A lady friend?"  
  
He could feel the tension in the air rise, and it seemed as if he could feel Garrot's back stiffen more than see it. The skin beneath Garrot's fur began to match the fur over it. "A lady, my dear sir. No more, and no less."  
  
The detective turned his eyes back to the painter. "I see. Ah, do you mind if I smoke?" When Garrot shook his head, Basil idly reached for his pipe. "You spoke before of fate, but I must confess, I myself do not believe in fate or predestination. I have done my reading on you, Dorien Garrot, and the readings state that you are supposedly cursed with immortality... from a self-portrait stained with your own guilt."  
  
For just a moment, a look of anger passed the calm artist's face, but the moment was gone as quickly as it had been. "Hmmmph. That's a very interesting idea, Basil of Baker Street." He took a breath, and suddenly, his voice became much lighter. "Tell me, do you know the story of Prometheus?"  
  
"My memory on it is somewhat foggy. Do tell," Basil replied, lighting his pipe.  
  
Garrot smiled to his guest. "Ah, he was a god of trickery. But he had a soft spot for humanity."  
  
Basil leaned slightly to one side as he rested his pipe on his lips, puffing at it for a moment before speaking again. "A fascinating character, to be certain. But just what, pray tell, are you getting at...?"  
  
"Give me a moment or two to finish, detective," implored Garrot. "You see, when Zeus doomed Man by stealing all fire, Prometheus dared to steal a bit of the stuff with a tree branch, and so returned warmth to the world." He turned his back on Basil, waving one hand in the air. "And so Zeus in turn punished Prometheus, savior of mankind, by chaining him forever to a rock, and sending an eagle to daily tear out his innards, and yet immortal, he could do nothing but heal. For eternity."  
  
The story caused a shudder to run through Basil, but he decided to wager a guess to the dapper gentlemouse. "You speak, perhaps then, of yourself?"  
  
Instantly, Garrot spun, glaring angrily into Basil's eyes like a cat with his eyes on his prey. Basil stepped back slightly as the normally smooth voice growled out, "I speak of fate!" The shaky breath that Garrot drew proved he was attempting to keep his cool. Lifting one paw to comb back through his ink black hair, he continued, voice shaking. "Damned is damned, detective. Nothing can change the past, and nothing can change the future."  
  
Swallowing again, Basil straightened his waistcoat. This young man was walking a very fine line, right on the edge of a rageful insanity, and if he was not careful with his words, he could provoke him... and fighting a truly mad mouse was not high on Basil's itinerary for the evening. "You seem to believe quite strongly in fate... so, was it fate that led you to invite me to your humble flat tonight? What purpose did you have in bringing me here?"  
  
Almost instantly, Garrot calmed fully, staring at Basil as if he had been struck. "I..." said he, quietly. "I wanted to meet you on more level terms. To see with my own eyes if you were what the stories made you out to be."  
  
"I am no more than a mouse like yourself, Garrot, as you can plainly see. If you take away the stories, Basil of Baker Street is no more than Sherringford Basil, the youngest son of a retired military mouse." His head tilted to one side. "But surely you must know why I answered your request to come."  
  
Garrot grinned wickedly, eyes like blazing coals as he gazed meaningfully at Basil. "Yes. You wanted to see if I was all I was made out to be."  
  
Basil lifted his chin somewhat, keeping his attention steadily on Garrot. "Perhaps, but I do not believe in curses, Dorien Garrot. I've had no proof that you are an ageless man. I've no reason to believe this is no more than a lark, like our swordfight in the bank."  
  
The white mouse just laughed, shaking his head. "What does it matter? Regardless what I appear to be, or what I am inside, I have seen too much, more than you far care to know. Do not be fooled by my face, detective. My soul is what is scarred."  
  
For a moment, the two regarded each other in silence, each one staring down the other, examining one another for faults... weaknesses. Suddenly, a flicker of recognition flashed in Basil's eyes, and he blinked, taking a wary step foreward. "...I remember now, after looking at the painting of that woman. I've seen your work before, in university. A professor there once had a painting comissioned by you, and I've every reason to believe that it is he you work for." Stepping foreward again, the sleuth's voice grew dark. "Professor Jamison Ratigan." No response. "Am I right?"  
  
There was another pause, before suddenly, Garrot began to chuckle. He chuckled and laughed, throwing his head back as the wild laughter escaped him. "Good show, good show!"  
  
Basil frowned, folding his arms as he clenched his teeth tightly on his pipe. "I am afraid I do not see what is quite so amusing to you, Garrot."  
  
"My good man, you won!" replied the painter. "And about time you did, as well! It certainly took you long enough, didn't it?"  
  
The berating made Basil wince, although he did his best to hide it. "So you work for Ratigan. A terrible pity, that an artistic genius such as yourself should go mad and turn to collaborating with the likes of him."  
  
But Garrot continued to laugh, as if the whole thing was a joke only he alone understood, even as he spoke. "Collaborating? Ha! A pity is exactly is what it is! Precisely what it is!" He laughed again. "Precisely!"  
  
Growing annoyed by the way Garrot seemed to make light of this rather serious situation, Basil scowled. "There is more to life than thievery, Garrot. In the name of queen and country, commit no more crimes!"  
  
Suddenly, the laughter stopped, as if cut off by a falling axe. "There is nothing left for me BUT crime. Don't you GET it, detective? I've done it... done it all!"  
  
"I said it before, and I shall say it again." Basil narrowed his eyes. "I do not believe in curses and paintings that age while their painters do not, but I DO believe in madness, induced by the death of the woman in that portrait."  
  
Garrot lowered his eyes to the floor, seemingly rather thoughtful. "Do you know when that woman died, detective?"  
  
Taken back by the question, Basil started, but answered without missing a beat. "According to the papers, nearly 30 years ago. But you are physically no older than me, and you've not the wear of years to tell me otherwise. A clever farce, and altered papers to attempt to unwit me."  
  
"It was no farce!" the painter insisted. "And I am far older than you care to guess. I am the Prometheus, Detective Basil of Baker Street. I am the one damned to have his innards torn out, every... single... day."  
  
By this point, Basil was through playing games. "Give me the truth, Garrot."  
  
"And the truth you have." The painter tilted his head to one side, watching Basil quietly. "I am many things, but I am no liar. That woman was my wife. I was her husband! I was! It was thirty years ago when I left that day. My God, has it been so long...?"  
  
Basil stared incredulously as Garrot spoke, not believing a word coming from him. He fought the urge to find the truth to this farce himself, swinging his head around to gaze at the intelligent green eyes of the woman in the painting. She smiled back at him, urging him to... believe? "...It is impossible. Illogical."  
  
"Is it impossible, detective? What is it I once heard some human say...? Ah, yes. "If all possiblities have been discounted, the remaining possiblity, no matter how improbable, must be the correct answer.""  
  
For a moment, Basil's mouth moved without words, until he found his voice again. His words came out as a breathless whisper, his eyes fixated on the portrait. "No man or mouse can live to be in his fifties without aging a day. It simply does not happen." He snapped back to attention, turning his eyes back to Garrot. "Whether this is true or not, Garrot, I must call you to judgement for your crimes. You are clearly mad; you need help."  
  
Garrot scoffed. "Would you have me arrested, detective? Write me off as mad? Such a simple solution, one unfitting of a mouse of your caliber. I have told you a great secret, and this, this is how you repay me? By calling me mad?" A laugh rolled past his lips again, this one darker and more cruel than before. "Really, this is far too much." His expression suddenly turned thoughtful again. "Come to think of it, I was already locked up for a time some twenty years back. They never helped me much, either." His eyes shifted back to Basil. "I did tell you I've done it all already, right?"  
  
Back stiffening, Basil stood his ground, staring right back at the burning coal eyes that seemed to pierce straight through him. "I have lived by science and books my whole life. My father made certain to raise us believing that the supernatural can always be explained by science." Gathering his nerve, he walked to stand face-to-face with Dorien Garrot. "Perhaps you are not mad, but I am hard-pressed to believe your story; whether it is true or not, you have still broken the law."  
  
"Typical," sneered he. "You've only read the books that have been written. What will it take to convince you, detective?" A wicked grin graced the elegant features of his face, and he flashed out a dagger. "Perhaps... proof?" In an instant, Basil took a few steps back, dropping into a defensive stance, watching in horror as Garrot put the dagger to his own face, gouging a deep laceration across his cheek. "Proof you shall have!"  
  
What happened next, Basil could not explain. Over the next few minutes, minutes that seemed to stretch on into forever, the wound very slowly began to heal. It took a long time, pulling together, stitching itself as the blood that had flown pulled back into the cut as it slowly but certainly disappeared, leaving not a scar. Nearly ten minutes had passed before either moved, the last traces of the wound disappearing entirely, before Basil spoke breathlessly, eyes wide. "God have mercy... What manner of trickery is this?"  
  
"Shall I show you once more, detective?" Garrot questioned with a wicked grin. "The other cheek does the same thing."  
  
Now Basil spoke uncertainly, most positive his eyes had played a cruel trick on him. "You brought me here... to see this. To determine if I was what you expected. For me to determine the same of you... beyond that... what do you intend to do...?"  
  
However, Garrot was not finished. He simply smiled softly, answering the question with another. "I frighten you... don't I, detective?" breathed he, turning to loom before Basil as if he were about to pounce, stepping foreward purposefully as Basil backed away. "You saw what just happened... and you do not know how to explain it. It frightens you."  
  
Basil swallowed hard, trying to force out the sudden fears, mentally reminding himself that it had to be some sort of clever trick. "Very little frightens me, Garrot. I said before, I do not believe in curses and magic. There are no such things. This is a world of science and explaination. What just happened must have been an optical illusion of some sort."  
  
At his words, Garrot threw his head back with a haughty laugh. "Your science fascinates me, dear detective. If I had the knowledge that I would return to this state after but a glance, I would gaze into the eyes of that cursed portrait myself... and show you the truth of this "spiritual fiddle-faddle."" He grinned, lunging foreward, forearm and paw across Basil's chest and shoulders, pinning him to the wall. "But I long not for death before someone else tells me how it feels." His other hand came up, holding a revolver, the barrel pressed tightly to Basil's temple. The white mouse leaned foreward, hissing harshly into his adversary's ear... "You first."  
  
**To Be Continued...**


End file.
